


Summer Wine

by RollTodd



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: And other games, Drinking Games, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-20
Updated: 2019-05-25
Packaged: 2019-06-13 15:14:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15367398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RollTodd/pseuds/RollTodd
Summary: Jon and Daenerys enjoy a calm, cool summer evening in the Red Keep.A quick, light-hearted piece set after the series' happy ending.Originally written last summer. Now a cure for the sadness.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written last summer. Now a cure for the sadness. Please enjoy.

The sun hung low in the western sky as Jon rode through the gates of the Red Keep. It cast all the city in a warm orange hue. The days were long in this third year of summer, and for that Jon was grateful. _More time in the saddle and less on the road._

As he passed under the great gatehouse, he craned his neck and looked upward at the towers of his family’s ancient keep. His wife would be up there, in the apartments perhaps, or on the terrace overlooking the sea. The memory of her made him smile.

He had been on the road for a fortnight, riding through the Stormlands to the mountains of Dorne. _Where I was born._ Quarreling marcher lords seldom required royal mediation, but when quarreling led to firing quarrels, the lords’ own business became the king’s.

Boisterous shouts of ‘Your Grace!’ and ‘King Jon!’ greeted him as he guided his horse to the stables. He waved at the onlookers as a stable hand helped him down, but he did not stop to speak with them nor the councilors who hurried toward him with scrolls in hand. That did not surprise him. Most of the court would rather treat with their king than their queen, who proved a far more, well, fiery mediator.

Jon waved them all away as he climbed the long steps to the keep’s entrance. The chorus of greetings and complaints faded behind him as he passed through the empty throne room and hastened up the winding stairs to his own quarters. He opened the door to their bedchamber.

Daenerys was sitting at their little round table where they often took their morning meals. It had been set beside a small balcony framed with twin columns. He drank in the sight of his wife like it was the last taste of crisp, cool summer wine. Her silver hair was loosely done and she wore a wispy gown of pale lilac silk that left little enough to the imagination. She looked up as he entered, a smile spreading across her face.

“You look tired,” she said with a knowing smile.

“I am,” he sighed, removing his sword belt and riding cloak.

“Too tired to join me here?” Daenerys asked. He looked at her once more, finally noticing the silvered goblet in her hand and the flagon of drink resting on the table. He grinned.

“No, not too tired for that,” he said. She motioned to the other chair at the table and rose to pour him a glass of amber colored wine. Daenerys sat and took a sip. He mirrored her movements.

They sat in silence for a moment, enjoying this moment of peace and quiet. _Such moments are as rare as southern snow for kings and queens._ A cool breeze blew in off the sea.

Finally, his wife ventured forth with a topic of conversation. “Tyrion and I supped together while you were away,” she said, though her tone was playful more than political.

“And what did our Hand have to say?”

“Well, he had invited me to sample some of the Arbor’s newest vintage. The one from the first year of this summer.”

“Of course he did,” Jon laughed.

“And he taught me a game,” Daenerys said, her welcoming smile morphing into something more mischievous.

“A good one, is it?” Jon asked, perplexed. In the back of his mind, he wondered precisely what Daenerys had been doing while he was away… _and how much of Tyrion’s wine she’s had just now._

“Yes. I thought we might play. I say something about you… and if it’s right, you drink. If it’s not, I drink,” she raised an eyebrow, inviting him to take up the challenge.

He laughed. “All right then, what’s your first _something,_ Your Grace?”

She leaned in slightly and met his gaze. It seemed to Jon she was about to share some great secret of the realm or of ruler ship. “You think this city is too hot,” she said simply.

Jon shook his head and sat back. Daenerys cleared her throat pointedly and eyed his goblet. He laughed softly and took a drink. It tasted cool and refreshing, just what he needed after a hard ride.

“Your turn,” his wife said. He looked her over, deciding on how best to strike back. There was a playful fire in her violet eyes. He decided to play along.

“You think this city is too cold,” he countered. Daenerys smirked and put the goblet to her soft lips.

“You prefer Rhaegal to Drogon,” she said after finishing the contents of her cup. 

“Of course I do! He’s my dragon,” Jon shot back.

She tilted her head quizzically. “Is that an admission? We must all abide by our own rules, Jon Snow.”

Shaking his head and failing to suppress a grin, he took a long drink from his cup. _So, this is the game we’re to play, is it?_

“You can’t stand the Grand Maester,” he stated.

“I value the wisdom of all our advisors,” Daenerys said in a mock tone of offense.

“And still you can’t stand him.” She drank.

“Speaking of advisors, there are times when you’d like to throw Tyrion into the sea,” Daenerys said.

Jon reached for his cup at once, but then paused, eyeing his wife. “And sometimes, you do too,” he said, raising his cup and inviting her to join him. She did, laughing softly all the while.

He drank deeply this time, finishing the cup in some long sip. The wine had kindled a fire in his veins. It made him feel more alive than a fortnight on horseback had done. He felt the sea breeze caress his face and watched it tug at Daenerys’ loose silver curls.

His eyes began to wander from hers, down to her neck and then further down. He felt his throat go dry and reached for the cup again. _Empty._ He reached for the flagon just as she did. Their fingers touched. Jon felt a jolt of lightning course through him. She filled their cups and sat back, her eyes focused on him.

“You wanted me from the first time you saw me,” she said, her voice lower than before. Jon grinned but did not reach for the wine. Daenerys gave him an expectant look. “Do not lie to your queen, Jon Snow.”

“It was the second time,” he said. She drank again.

“But speaking of our meeting, you decided to sail north for less-than-political reasons.” It was an old joke of theirs – a happy memory from an unhappy time.

“I thought that was obvious,” she said with a smirk.

“Tyrion certainly did,” he laughed, remembering the uncertainty of those days. _Before all this. Before us._ Daenerys finished another cup and set the silvered goblet down. “I think I’m winning,” Jon joked. 

“Oh?” she said. “Well, here is a statement of truth then: you’d like nothing more than to tear the clothes from your queen’s body and carry her off to the royal chambers to have your way with her.” They both laughed and they both took sips of wine.

Then, Jon heard a quiet noise from across the room. _The bedchambers,_ he knew at once. Daenerys had not noticed. He watched the door creak open, but kept his gaze fixed on his wife.

“And you,” he began, “cannot have children… because some eastern witch told you so.” Daenerys scowled at him and went to take a drink.

With a playful shriek, their daughter burst forth from the crown princess’ chambers. Though only four, she was already the image of her queen mother. She was garbed in a deep blue sleeping gown and ran barefoot across the tiled floor, launching herself into her father’s arms.

He hugged her tight as she buried her face between his chest and arm. “She’s missed you,” Daenerys said with a smile.

“I noticed,” Jon laughed. He picked up his daughter and sat her crosswise across his lap. “Did you behave for your mother while I was away, Lyanna?” She nodded fervently, her violet eyes alight with joy.

Daenerys gasped in disbelief. “I suppose we’re not telling your father about the incident with Ghost?”

“No…” their daughter offered a shy response.

“What’s this?” Jon asked his wife and daughter both. Lyanna buried her face in his clothing once more.

“Your daughter thought it might prove exciting to ride your direwolf around like a horse.” Jon laughed and felt the little girl mumbled into his chest.

“What’s that?” he asked.

“Dragon…” she said more clearly as she sat upright once more.

“He’s a wolf, sweetling,” Jon corrected her.

Daenerys sighed across the table. “No, she meant for him to be a dragon. She tried to paint him green, you see – like Rhaegal. I’m told Tyrion helped her pilfer the paints.” That sent Jon into a ceaseless mirth. Lyanna joined in her father’s merriment, as did Daenerys.

“It’s time for sleep, little one.

“Are you going to sleep?” she asked.

“To bed, yes, we are,” he said, catching his wife’s eye and smirking. He set his daughter down on the floor. “Run along to your room now, I’ll be there in a moment.” She hurried away.

Jon stood up, almost knocking over his goblet as he did so. _I’d almost forgotten._ “Well, Your Grace, it seems I’ve won our game. Is there a purse or prize for the champion?”

Daenerys looked at him with love in her eyes and a knowing smile on her face. “Put our daughter to bed, then come claim your reward.” She disappeared behind the bedroom door. Jon sighed, his heartbeat quickening in excitement. He would taste sweeter things than summer wine tonight.


	2. An Autumn Storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick one-shot to help the sadness.

The late autumn storm had raged over Dragonstone for a day and a night now. Winds howled about the black stone walls. Huge waves crashed against the cliffs and rushed up the stony shores. Four ships had already been smashed to kindling in the harbor.

Or so he had been told. Jon could not see too far beyond the thick curtains of rain outside the keep’s curtain walls. Yet he kept staring out into the storm from the balcony of the Chamber of the Painted Table. The roof kept him dry as he enjoyed the feeling of the wind in his hair. _Like standing atop the Wall,_ he mused. _Or riding Rhaegal._  

He would not be able to do that now. Neither dragon could fly in these conditions. Until the storm cleared – and who knew how long that would be – he was stuck on the ground and on this island.

 _We are stuck._ Jon and Daenerys had flown together to Dragonstone just a few days past. His royal wife enjoyed the crisp sea air and freedom the island afforded her and the dragons. Jon enjoyed the silence. The castle was home to only the castellan, a small garrison, and a few royal retainers. The rest of the Targaryen household remained in the city. _With our three children._

The Princess Lyanna – their heir and eldest daughter – had been pleased to learn that she would have ‘command’ of the realm whilst her parents rested away from court for a few days. Jon had laughed as he bid her farewell, placing a silver circlet upon her raven-haired head and a kiss upon her brow. _I should hope Samwell is able to rein in the impulses of a nine-year-old._  

Perhaps it was no laughing matter. Just a fortnight past, Daenerys had received reports of plague and blight in the Riverlands. An heirless Lord Arryn had fallen ill as well. _And winter is coming._

Still, a few days’ rest was no crime. _Or a few days of restlessness,_ he mused, thinking of his wife. Daenerys hated storms and snow and small council meetings that ran on too long. _She hates feeling trapped,_ he knew. _And yet trapped we are…_ Another day of this autumn tempest was like to drive her mad.

“I don’t think staring at the storm will make it pass any faster.”

Jon turned slowly, a smile spreading across his face as he saw Daenerys standing at the entrance to the chamber. Her violet eyes shone in the light from the hearth. Her silver hair was unbraided and unbound, though in a fashion that made her seem a queen utterly at peace.

Jon felt his pulse quicken as he drank in the sight of the rest of her. Gone was the fur-lined black dress from earlier that morning. She had dressed herself in an eastern gown. _If that’s even the proper word for it._ There was as much soft skin visible as there was wispy blue silk. Two strands cross just below her breasts but left her navel bare.

“Are you not cold?” he asked, forcing the words out as his throat became uncomfortably dry.

“A bit,” she shrugged as she gracefully entered the room and walked toward him, letting her fingers run along the top of the Painted Table. “Though I don’t mean to stay here for long.”

He saw a playful glint in her eyes as she approached, but he could not keep her gaze for long. _Gods…_ It was truly the worst thing about the city and the court – having to maintain a king’s courtesy. _But here? Alone with her?_ He could be himself. All of himself. 

“No?” he laughed softly. “And where do you mean to go?”  
  
“I asked Hewett to draw us a bath,” she said. His eyes remained on her dress, but his mind wandered down the halls toward the bath chambers. It was no simple tub, he knew. Their ancestors had seamlessly fused stone and directed the islands heat underneath the castle. It would be a pleasant way to spend the afternoon…

“Did you?” he asked, taking a step toward her. She nodded, turning away to look at the table. Daenerys bent ever so slightly over the table, offering him a view of the rest of her. _She’s enjoying this,_ he thought… though perhaps he would not be able to think for much longer. He felt all reason being driven from his head with each beat of his heart.

“Aegon Targaryen, the first one, had this table made. Did you know that?” she asked.

Jon laughed softly, both amused and bemused at this sudden change of topic. “I did.”

“He wanted to map out everything he would one day claim,” she said, shifting again. His eyes drank in the sight of the silk clinging to her curves.

“He did.”

Daenerys turned and looked at him again, raw desire now writ plain on her face. “Is there anything you see here that you’d like to claim?” She smirked and then turned again, walking back the way she had come.

Jon followed her. It took every fiber of his considerable discipline not to run outright.


	3. Fool's Errand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short n' sweet

“You’re a fool,” she said. And he was. Her husband was a king, not a boy of eight. What had he been doing on the isle’s smoking mount with Drogon’s brood?

“I know,” Jon sighed as he sank into the soft pillow of their bed, hissing in pain.

“Truly, a fool,” she said. “Look at you arm. Look at your leg!”

And truly, he looked as if he had marched into battle against the Dragonlords of Old Valyria. His leathers and jerkin were singed and blackened. His cloak was half burned away. _You are a fool, my love._

“Your northern fool,” he looked up from the bed and smiled sheepishly.

“A fool for all the realm, I think,” Daenerys responded. “I’ll remove your proper clothes and dress you in motley myself if you like.”

“Start with removing my clothes then,” Jon smiled up at her.

“I’d remove something else if I have need of it,” Daenerys narrowed her gave as a smirk crept across her face. Jon laughed.

“I don’t think your Unsullied accept new recruits so late.” _They might make an exception for their king._

Daenerys sighed and sat down at the foot of the bed. “What were you thinking?” she asked, genuinely curious as to what madness had taken hold of the man she loved. “Trying to ride Davon like that? He’s no more than a hatchling.”

“He’s the size of a small ship, Dany,” Jon replied.

“And he’s not meant to be ridden yet. Not even by you.”

Jon turned and looked out the window. _He’s being taken by one of his moods,_ she knew. They were like storm clouds on otherwise sunny days. “I miss him.” _Rhaegal,_ she knew. It had been years since her green had died in the fight against the dead, but the bond between dragon and rider was strong – like fibers of the mind forged in Valyrian steel. _It only took a few months together to bond, but that bond lasts a lifetime._

She placed a hand on his covered leg. “I know,” she said. Jon turned back and reached down to take her hand in his. She gave him a gentle but reassuring squeeze. “You both just need time.”

She thought of the dragon, one of the three eggs Drogon had laid well after the war. Two remained unhatched. _They would wait for the right time, when Lyanna and Aegon come of age._ Daenerys had set the lilac and silver eggs beside her children in their cribs.

Davon’s egg had provoked their collective curiosity. The egg had been green and bronze, not unlike Rhaegal’s own, and Daenerys had placed it upon Ser Davos Seaworth’s funeral pyre after the old Master of Ships had passed peacefully in his sleep. _Only death can pay for life,_ she knew, and Davos’ blood had sundered the scales of the egg and brought another dragon into the world. _Perhaps that is why,_ she thought. _He misses them both._

“You need to give him time to grow, Jon,” she continued. He nodded and squeezed her hand.

She let a moment pass before bringing up the obvious. “Jon…”

“Hmm?”

“Between us, how much wine did you drink before you wandered across the island to the mountain?”

Jon cleared his throat. “Tormund brought the fermented milk south instead.”

Daenerys sighed and laughed all at once. Sometimes he truly was a fool. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yea, just writing random scenes as they come to me. Enjoy!


End file.
